The reason for going to Fairhope was that it was a way to get to Montgomery, the home of Jay’s Imports, my favorite mechanic. Jay did not respond to hails on Monday, and when I finally got in touch with him on Tuesday, he said he was booked up for the next month. He then asked what I needed and spent more than five minutes providing sage advice about alternative hypotheses for my low voltage at the battery, adding, “well, I might be able to squeeze in an alternator this afternoon.” What I want is to be able to get Jay to give the car a good going over and bless it for our journey. This is how I decided to spend another day in Fairhope.
Following my Do As The Romans mantra, I had bacon and eggs for breakfast, then sat on the back porch working on my laptop. I suggested that we lunch at the club, but Jim said that he wasn’t welcome there, so around 12:30 Jim and I stepped away from our laptops and had leftovers for lunch. He tried to coerce me to choose between the steak and the meatloaf, but I insisted that I wanted it all. I was glad too, they were both quite tasty. Sadly, the sweet potatoes managed to hide themselves in the back of the fridge, so I missed out on those.
The five hour baseball Double Header started at something like 5:00. (In case Jim reads this, Yes, I know it wasn’t really a double header since it was four different teams playing, but we did have two opportunities to see our teams play.) I opted to go check out Fairhope and hit both the Irish Pub and My Place (which Google Maps still refused to acknowledge).
I had been told that neither dogs nor alcohol were welcome at the baseball park. To me, this seemed decidedly un-American. After re-parking Walden in a place that I was lead to believe was less likely to result in a broken windshield than my original spot, I apologized to Thor and told him that I’d check things out. I poured a beer into a wide-mouth thermos, grabbed my bag of peanuts and folding chair and set out to find the game. I saw signs that said to pick up after your dog, which suggested that Thor might be more welcome than I’d been lead to believe.
I missed the first game, which had been cut short due to the Ten Run Rule. I was just in time for dinner with the family. Jim was eating a hamburger, and complaining about how expensive it was. I went and got a hot dog (it was a baseball game). I settled down to the table with my hot dog and my thermos. My hostess was quite impressed, or at least surprised, that I’d bought soup to the ball park. Upon closer inspection, she noticed that my soup was a cold malted barley soup, replete with hoppy goodness. Now she understood my “soup.”
When our next game started, I showed off my folding chair and went to get a refill of my soup. En route I noticed signs that said that dogs were unwelcome during games or practice, and that vulgar language was verboten.
I rejoined my hostess at the game, already in progress. We engaged in a conversation that resulted in my using some word like “dumbass.” This resulted in dagger eyes from a septuagenarian couple. I had clearly misinterpreted this community’s notion of
“vulgar.” I considered offering the couple some soup so that they might lighten up, but thought better of it, mostly because I’d lost my wine cups in New Orleans. I thought that serving them wine in blue plastic cups would be gauche.
I spent the second inning in the “Press box.” I’m not quite sure about the moniker. It was full of trash. Jim was there running the scoreboard. There was no press. It was a pretty good seat, or would have been if there had been a seat. It was right behind home plate, so we had a good vantage on just how many pitches were wildly outside the confines of the plate. My favorite was one that went behind the batter’s head and hit the bat, resulting in a foul, which is the same as a strike, for those of you even less well-versed in the game than I. We won that game by the ten run rule too.
The kids were going to ride home in Walden, but then that decision was changed. It might have been dubious seat belts on a 1985 car (“There are seat belts in the front,” I said. “But that’s worse because of the airbags!” said mom. Somehow my assurance that there were no airbags did not restore hope. The lack of seatbelts was why the kids rode home with the parents rather than in Walden. Or maybe it was the soup.